Emmy's Equal (17 page)

The little man in the wide sombrero had gone from walking alongside the wagon to sitting tall beside Willem in the front seat. Following Marcos’s directions, they skirted Fort Duncan without alerting the attention of the posted sentinels, then crossed the bridge on Van Buren Street and turned left on Garrison. True to his word, he had many connections in Eagle Pass, considering every person they passed greeted him by name.

At a Y in the road, so near the river Magda smelled the fusty odor of mud, they veered to the left, passing a large, poorly lit building on the corner.

After one more block, they took a right turn on Rian Street, and Marcos led them around to the back of a seedy warehouse.

Willem set the brake on the rig.

John tied Faron to a dilapidated post and addressed Marcos. “Now what?”

“Please to follow me, señor.” Aiming a nod and a mumbled greeting at a group of men gathered around a fire pit, Marcos questioned one of them in Spanish.

The tall, slender man smiled and hooked his thumb toward the building.

Marcos opened the door to a scene Magda would not soon forget. The inside of the warehouse was a large open space, except for a small office tucked in one corner. Cots took up most of the room, and where there were no cots, ragged quilts and bedspreads covered the floor. Stretched out on the makeshift beds were men both young and old, some huddled beneath worn blankets, some propped against pillows to read, others clustered together talking quietly. Nearby, a young boy sat cross-legged on a cot, spooning beans into his mouth, though how he managed to eat surrounded by the putrid smell of urine and unwashed bodies was more than Magda could fathom.

She controlled her roiling stomach and her emotions until she glanced at Bertha’s face. Tears flowed unchecked down her friend’s cheeks and her nose streamed. Magda slid an arm around her waist. “I know, sugar,” she whispered. “I know.”

Bertha wiped her nose on her sleeve. “This is dreadful, Magda.” She nodded. “Yes, it is. But, honey”—she wiped the tears from Bertha’s eyes with her thumbs—“don’t let them see you crying. Let’s leave them some dignity.”

A ruckus arose in the corner. Three men were seated around a table playing cards and one of them was shouting. The largest of the lot, an overweight, ruddy-cheeked bloke in a dirty white shirt and slacks held up by suspenders, scowled at a handsome young man of Latin descent. “You heard me, you dimwitted
naco.
Do I need to spell the words for you?”

Across the table, a slightly built, gray-haired man lifted his head, a serene expression of patience on his face. “Your tone is unnecessary, Mr. Malone. I’m certain Señor Ortiz doesn’t mean to seem obtuse.”

“But, Father, I’ve explained three times. I reckon he cain’t understand no English. That or he plain ain’t listening.”

In a show of frustration, the young man threw down his cards. “I am trying to listen, Father. Most of his speech does not sound like English to me.”

Ruddy-cheeks pointed at him. “There, you see? He’s downright ignorant.”

The distinguished gentleman they called Father studied Malone in silence until he squirmed, and then he lifted one eyebrow. “Mr. Malone, how much Spanish can you speak, sir?”

“Who me? I cain’t speak a whit.” He snorted. “Don’t care to neither.”

“I see.” He pointed to the young fellow. “So, here we have a man accused of being unrefined and lacking social graces.” He peered into Mr. Malone’s eyes. “This is the meaning of a naco, correct?”

“But, Father Darius...” Mr. Malone’s gaze darted around the room, but he found no support among the silent, hollowed-eyed witnesses.

“Yet Mr. Ortiz has undertaken to learn English as well as his native Spanish.” He redirected his finger at Mr. Malone. “And here we have one who speaks only his native tongue—having mastered it none too well, I might add.”

Father Darius placed his arm around Señor Ortiz’s thin shoulders. “He has attempted to learn to communicate with you, Mr. Malone. I would say that makes him a leader, not an ignorant naco. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Mr. Malone hung his head. “I reckon so.”

Father Darius patted him on the back. “I suggest you apply the golden rule to your dealings with Señor Ortiz from now on. How does that sound?”

He mumbled his agreement and glanced at Mr. Ortiz.

The young man offered his hand and they shook heartily.

Marcos saw his chance and moved in. “Father Darius?”

His attention still on the reconciling men, Father Darius lifted joyful eyes. “Yes?” He stood to his feet. “Why, hello, Marcos. I see you’ve brought me more customers.” He glanced around and sighed. “We’ll have to squeeze to make a bit more room, but I suppose we can take them in.”

He nodded at Willem and John then smiled gently at Bertha and Magda. “I’m very sorry. I have no accommodations to offer women.” His outstretched arm took in the crowded room. “I’m afraid this is no place for the fairer sex. There’s absolutely no privacy. You’d be most uncomfortable here.” He held up his finger. “But I can suggest the perfect alternative for you.”

Marcos shook his head vigorously. “No, Father. They need only to talk to you. They’re searching for Raul.”

Concern lined his gentle face. “Is the boy in trouble?”

John smiled. “None that we know of.” He held out his hand. “John Rawson of the Twisted-R Ranch in Carrizo Springs.” He indicated Willem, Bertha, and Magda, introducing them in turn. “These fine people are guests on my ranch.”

Father Darius colored slightly. “Of course. I’m very sorry. I have a simple mind, I’m afraid. I see everyone I meet as homeless waifs.” He bowed at the waist. “Forgive my unfortunate assumption, ladies.”

Magda offered her hand. “No apology necessary, Father.”

He grinned. “Call me Darius, please. I’m not a priest and hardly deserving of the title. Father is a moniker the men pinned on me years ago when I took in a few orphan boys, and it stuck.” He addressed John again. “You say you’re looking for Raul?”

John nodded. “We were told he has information on some livestock for sale. Mrs. Bloom, here, is looking to buy several head of prime cattle to take home with her to Humble.”

Father Darius’s head shot up, his gaze fixed on Bertha. “Did he say Humble?”

Bertha smiled. “That’s right.”

“Texas?”

“Is there another one?”

He blinked. “And your name is Bloom?”

Perplexed by the questions, Bertha furrowed her brow. “That’s what the man said, ain’t it?”

He studied her, his eyes gone to narrow slits. “You wouldn’t be kin to a fellow named Thaddeus Bloom, now would you?”

Bertha tensed and her mouth went slack. “As a matter of fact, I would.” She stepped closer and tilted her face up to his. “What’s your full name, mister?”

Beaming, he stuck out his hand. “Darius Q. Thedford at your service, ma’am.”

“Cuddy, stop!” Emmy shouted louder, but the rushing wind and pounding of the horse’s hooves drowned out her voice. She clung to Cuddy’s back with all of her strength, praying the ride would end soon.

Relief flooded her middle with warmth when she recognized the slope to the river. Certainly Cuddy would let her down when they reached the water’s edge.

The warm glow turned to icy fingers of fear when he turned the big mare and thundered along the bank, urging the horse to go faster than Emmy had ever ridden in her life.

She prayed either the horse or Cuddy knew where they were going, because the overcast night was so murky, she could see nothing. Feeling the horse lift from the ground, she tightened her grip around Cuddy’s waist, closed her eyes, and screamed.

His hoarse laughter floated on the breeze as they cleared the low fence and hurtled into a black veil.

When she thought he’d never stop, he did. Still laughing, he reined the panting mare to a halt. “Give me your hand,” he said, groping behind him.

She pushed him away. “Why?”

“So I can help you down.”

“I don’t want down. Where are we, Cuddy? It’s as dim as pitch out here.”

He chuckled. “Ain’t that nice?”

“No, it’s not nice. Take me back this instant.”

He groaned. “Come on, honey. Don’t be like that. We have to give this horse a little rest first. Besides, I just want to talk for a while.”

She let go of him and crossed her arms, though he couldn’t see her. “I don’t think so, Cuddy.”

He sighed. “You’re going to force me to embarrass myself, aren’t you?”

Her interest piqued, she waited for him to explain.

He didn’t.

“How might I do that?”

His shoulders rose and fell with a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s just that ... talking to you about our fathers makes me feel better. I mean ... knowing there’s someone who understands means the world to me.”

Emmy dangled between hugging him and inviting him to peddle his wares elsewhere. The wild ride he’d just subjected her to swung the vote. “I don’t believe you.”

His silence made her fear she’d angered him. When he spoke, the weight of resignation pulled his voice to a whisper. “I can’t say I blame you.” He nudged the horse around.

Emmy’s heart lurched. “Wait, Cuddy.” She felt for his hand. “I’m being silly. Help me dismount.”

He lowered her to the ground and she stood surrounded by night sounds and little else, wrapped in a soft cocoon of darkness. She shivered, willing Cuddy to hurry and join her. When he did, his arm went around her and she relaxed into him.

“Where are we?”

“A place I come when I need to be alone.” He led her a few feet from the horse and spread a blanket on the ground. “It’s a nice spot. I wish there was more light so you could see.”

“So do I.” She groped the ground before she sat. “What about snakes and scorpions?”

He squeezed her shoulders. “Stay close to me. I won’t let them get you.”

Bumping his arm, Emmy giggled. “Who will protect me from you?”

His answering laughter sounded more like the old Cuddy. “I won’t hurt you. I only want to spend a little time with you.”

A warning tensed her stomach. “Yes, to talk. That’s what you said.”

“To talk. Of course.”

Now that her eyes weren’t clenched tight with dread, they began to adjust to the meager light. Cuddy’s dim outline blocked out the night sky. “Has something else happened? With your father, I mean?”

He ducked his head. “Not yet, but it’s bound to. As sure as we’re sitting here, it will happen when Father gets home. I see no way around it.”

The alarm laced through his words clenched Emmy’s fists. She shivered again, this time with foreboding. “What, Cuddy? What do you think will happen?”

Illogically, considering the gloomy turn of their conversation, the clouds overhead parted, allowing the starry sky to rain light across the open field.

Emmy could see Cuddy clearly now, trace the etched lines in his forehead, read the fear in his eyes.

“When my father returns from Catarina, Diego will be leaving the Twisted-R.”

Stunned, Emmy stared at him. “For good?”

“Hauled to the gate by the scruff of his neck, if I know my father—which means I’ll never get off this accursed ranch.”

She gripped his arm. “I don’t understand. Why would your father ask Diego to leave?”

He grunted. “Like I said, there won’t be any asking.” He speared her with a glance. “Diego committed the unpardonable. He hurt Greta.” Bitterness tainted his laugh. “No one hurts John Rawson’s family, especially his baby girl, without paying a mighty high price.”

She squirmed. “So you heard?”

He shook his head. “Diego told me. I wasn’t sure you heard until now.”

Emmy stared. “He told you?”

“He tells me everything.” He reached inside his jacket and drew out a small container, fumbling with the lid. “When Diego’s gone, that just leaves me, the old man’s favorite project.” He turned up the flask and took a long drink then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Not to mention his biggest failure.”

Emmy seized the bottle from his hand and held it up. “Where did this come from? I thought you threw it away.”

“I had a spare.”

He reached for it, but she snatched it away. “You’re not getting this back.”

He shrugged, his teeth flashing white against his shadowy face. “That’s all right. It’s empty.”

She shook it but heard no sloshing sound. “Oh, Cuddy. How much have you had?”

“Not enough, evidently. I’m still conscious.” His head drooped between his knees. “Aw, Emily. What will I do if Diego leaves? He’s been my right arm. With him gone, it won’t take long for the old man to figure out I don’t know a thing about running the ranch.”

There was no doubting his anguish. Once again, sympathy crowded her heart, and she touched his arm. “Why don’t you talk to your father? Tell him the truth about how you feel?”

He snorted. “Talk to my father? Now that’s a laugh.” He lifted his head and stared thoughtfully. “Maybe I could plead my case to Mother. Have her soften him up for me.”

Emmy lifted one shoulder. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Compassion is hardly her strongest trait.”

His gaze shifted to Emmy. “What makes you say that? Kate Rawson is the model of compassion.”

Emmy balked. “Not toward me. Papa entrusted her with my welfare, but she hasn’t bothered to see to my needs for two days.” She stuck out her lip. “I’ve nearly starved.”

“But Rosita has.” His eyes were troubled. “Hasn’t she?”

“Only once, but she never came again.”

He groaned and balled his fists at his temples. “Mother has no idea. She’d have a stroke if she knew.”

Emmy swatted away his words. “That can’t be so. How could she not know?”

“Her mind is preoccupied with Greta, so she put Rosita in charge of you. I heard her myself.”

The bewildering words were a muddle in her mind. She might have discounted them except for the memory of Rosita’s sullen face at her door.

“Then Rosita hasn’t fulfilled her charge.” She cocked an eyebrow at Cuddy. “Why would she do that?”

He spun on the blanket to face her, nearly toppling into her lap. “That’s an easy answer. There’s a rift between Diego and me that wasn’t there before. She blames you.”